The Road to Vegas
by FraterKiller
Summary: It took two bottles of bourbon and three joints for Sam to say yes. Dean's calling this one a victory. Ergo, a celebration; Winchester style. Warnings for underage drinking, the usage of pot and a stereotypical blonde. (Pre-series, not slash.)


AN: **I'm writing chapters for everything else right now, it's just taking a really long time. This was a scene that wasn't working in one of those stories, so I took it out and figured I could post it as a one-shot instead. Enjoy the filler while I work on everything else! **

**Any mistakes are my own.**

* * *

Four hours after Sam's high school graduation, the Impala pulls smoothly into an abandoned field eight miles east of Cheney, Arkansas.

Even at night the heat is oppressive, humid and miserable, and Dean can vaguely remember shedding two shirts within a few moments of their arrival. Sam's plaid flannel had disappeared soon after, lost somewhere in the thicket of thigh-high weeds and mounds of loose dirt. They're both sweating buckets. Dean feels like a drowned rat, and he knows Sam isn't much better. While he's seriously reconsidering his decision to keep his remaining undershirt, Sam kicks off his shoes, one sneaker hitting Dean's thigh. He glares as his brother wiggles out of his socks, smiling wide and open and high as a kite.

The dope was easy to score, and the booze had been even easier. It seemed like half the town was graduating and everybody was celebrating, so if somebody discovered one or two bottles missing from the local store, Dean didn't think anybody would care enough to make a big deal out of it.

In conclusion: He's got a bottle of Jim Bean in one hand, his second joint in the other, and right now?

Dean Motherfucking Winchester can do No Fucking Wrong.

"So, like, I was thinking," Dean announces, propped up against the Impala's back tire. The pleasant buss of drunkenness is relaxing his mouth, and the words sound only slightly slurred. Sam tilts his head up from where he's sprawled across the ground, expression pinched and confused.

"No shit," Sam grunts, "do I need to call an ambulance?" Dean scoots forward and breathes out obnoxiously in Sam's direction. Sam leans back, but his reflexes are hindered by alcohol, so he ends up inhaling the secondhand smoke. He coughs, hacking a little.

Dean grins a slow, lazy stretch of a smile. "That was really lame, dude." The moon's giving off just enough light for him to see the outline of Sam's shirt as his chest rises and falls. It's navy under his pits, neck, and back; but it's thin blue cotton everywhere else.

"Yeah, I guess so." Dean keeps grinning because it feels good, and mouths Sam's words silently into his arm, chapped lips catching on his skin. _I guess so_.

After the third repetition, it gets kind of boring.

"What're you thinking about?"

Dean rolls his shoulders, takes another drag. The smoke tickles at his throat and nostrils. "Wanna go to Vegas?"

"Why would we wanna go _there?"_ Sam asks dubiously. "It's the middlea June, man. Too fuckin' hot."

"We'd be indoors, Sammy. Sexy women, poker, air conditioning_..._ the joys of life." He drinks a little more bourbon. It doesn't burn going down; that's how drunk he is. Sam giggles uncontrollably.

...maybe they're both a _little_ more wasted than he thought. Just a little.

"No, but, seriously," Sam says, "why?"

"Girls, poker and _boobs_."

Sam rolls his eyes. "_Dean_," he warns.

_"Lots_ of boobs," he amends. This time, Sam props himself up on his elbows to glare at his brother. His discarded joint is somewhere underneath him, snuffed out by sweat and scattered by his squirming, completely forgotten. His smaller bottle is only a sixth of the way gone.

Sam squints, eyes still watering from the smoke. Dean stretches his arms out, sighs, then tucks them under his head, content. Sam hums something that sounds suspiciously like a line from _Dancing Queen_, then says, "Why d_you_ wanna go to Vegas?"

"I _told_ you, man. _Tits,"_ he repeats.

Sam grunts and flops back down."'M too fuckin' drunk for this."

"The only chicks here are Mary Ann and Cindy Lou," Dean continues casually, waving the arm holding his joint for emphasis, "and lemme tell you, Sammy, after Cindy blew me in her Old Man's haystack-"

"Oh my God, Dean, _stop, _you're such a fucking_ horndog._" Dean knows the tips of his brother's ears are probably beet red. Knows it like, like he knows.

Like he knows.

Um.

Oh, right.

"Hey, now," Dean chides mildly, "I just said I'd drive you to goddamn _Vegas_. Where's the love?"

"It died in the sixties." Dean blinks at the unexpected answer.

"What? Really?" He's honestly curious. Sam exhales, moves his head back and forth like he's debating continuing the line of conversation. When he finally answers, his tone is flat and dry.

"With peace, tie-dye and patchouli, shithead."

Dean ponders this seriously for a moment, then nods.

He takes another drag.

A cricket chirps, and Sam swats at a mosquito circling his head, missing it entirely. His fine motor skills are shot to shit, Dean thinks, and he wiggles his fingers. He grins when he realizes he's pretty much the same_._

"Patchouli ain't dead," Dean finally decides on.

"What?"

"Patchouli ain't dead," he repeats.

"Why isn't it?"

"'member Bettie, the fake Wiccan?" Sam's brow furrows as he thinks.

"Bettie with an i? Portland? _That_ Bettie?"

"Yeah, her." Sam grimaces.

"What about her?"

"When dad and I broke into her apartment-"

"Ugh, kill me now. I don't need to know about that." Dean's lips quirk upward, and he takes another drag. He scoots forward again - and whoa; hello there, momentum - to set his bottle on Sam's chest. Sam watches curiously through his soaked bangs, but doesn't move. After a moment, Dean picks the bottle back up, and cackles at the ring of condensation left behind.

Then he does it again.

"Dean!" Sam barks. Dean thinks he does a pretty good impression of Dad.

Well, an inebriated, floppy-haired Dad, sure, but still Dad.

When Dean's laughter finally subsides, Sam grins. "It _was_ pretty funny, though. The look on her face when Dad asked her if she'd sacrificed any cats lately was priceless." They share a grin.

"Anyway, it smelled like patchouli," Dean supplies helpfully. Sam rolls his eyes. Again. He probably doesn't have enough energy left to do anything else, Dean figures.

"Careful, you might pull something," he says.

Sam doesn't answer.

Dean takes another drag, purses his lips and blows out. The white smoke rushes forward, curling to the side. The wind carries it away as it dissipates, disrupting his view of his brother. After it's gone, he can see that Sam had turned his head away and covered his face with his arms.

"Asshole," he says. It comes out muffled.

"Do you know what time it is?" Dean asks. He'd feeling too lazy to get up and check.

"No." Sam says, pointedly not looking at his watch.

"Dad is going to _kill_ us."

"Actually, no. He's going to kill _you."_ Sam corrects.

"Impertinent little shit," Dean says, laughing.

"Maybe just a little," Sam concedes.

There's companionable silence, then;

"So whadaya say, Sammy? Vegas or no Vegas?" Sam tilts his chin up, reaches for the little dipper. The tips of his fingers graze the air, and Dean has to close his eyes for a moment out of dizziness.

"...Okay. Maybe just a day or two."

Dean smiles.

* * *

They (Dean) get thrown out of the first bar for hustling pool.

They (Dean, again) get thrown out of the second for flirting with the wrong girl.

The third time, though.

"Oh, my _god,"_ the chick says for the fiftieth time, giggling drunkenly. If you squinted and turned your head sideways, her smeared mascara and too-red lipstick transformed her into a demented clown. She's already three sheets to the wind, though, so Sam figures she probably doesn't notice, and if she did, she certainly wouldn't care. "What happened next?"

Dean leers shamelessly at her very large tits as he continues embellishing his completely fake story.

(Sam gets a very strong urge to go hide in a corner, shrivel up, and die out of embarrassment.

He's never agreeing to one of Dean's plans ever, _ever_ again.)


End file.
